


Triple Shot Pumpkin Spice Latte

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For two years, Stiles had very much enjoyed his position as Student Psychologist at his alma mater. The pay was all right, he liked the students who came to see him, and his work was challenging and diverse-- or so it used to be, before Professor Hale came along.</p><p>AU in which student psychologist Stiles has to deal with all the students crushing on the elusive and infuriating Professor Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triple Shot Pumpkin Spice Latte

Stiles liked his job, he really did. Back in high school, he’d never even considered Psychology as a potential career path; back then he’d been all about Maths, Physics, Econ. Rules and hardcore number crunching, 1 + 1 = 2, none of the fuzzy unconscious nonsense that interfered with human behavior. But his Social Sciences requirement in college taught him that it was actually quite intriguing, getting to know the workings of the mind. The more he learned, the more he _wanted_ to learn— and the more he learned, the better he became at figuring people out.

Ultimately, figuring out someone’s psychological problem was much like solving a math problem, really. Except instead of working toward an answer, he worked backward from the answer to the often obscure causes of it and tried to solve _those_. More difficult, sure, but also more rewarding.

Or so it used to be.

For two years, Stiles had very much enjoyed his position as Student Psychologist at his alma mater. The pay was all right, he liked the students who came to see him, and his work was challenging and diverse.

Or so it used to be, before Professor Hale came along.

Honestly, Stiles should have seen it coming when the girl in front of him, Hope (who’d come to him about her unfortunate tendency to throw up during exams), started shifting uncomfortably in her chair and mumbled that she guessed there was something else they should maybe talk about. But he hadn’t, and when she took a deep breath and said, “So, um, also I think I may kind of be falling in love with one of my professors? A little?” he could barely resist the urge to drop his head into his hands.

Fuck no.

Not this again.

She continued, “I know it’s _really_ bad and I promise nothing happened, really, nothing happened, nothing is _ever_ gonna happen, but I just can’t stop thinking about him— he’s so _good-looking_ and he wears these soft-looking gray cardigans with the sleeves rolled up and every time I step into his classroom and he smiles at me or says ‘good morning, Hope’ I just can’t take it, and he’s so _intelligent_ too, Mr. Stilinski, he literally seems to know, like, basically everything there is to know within his field, and, I mean, it’s not even like I’m the only one, all my friends love Professor Ha—”

Hope slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Stiles waved her distress away. “Don’t worry about it, Hope. Principle of confidentiality, remember?”

Fucking Hale.

Of _course_ this elusive new colleague of his had to rear his ugly head in serious psychotherapeutic conversation again. And to think that this time last year, Stiles had been solving actual problems. There’d been that shy A-student with symptoms of undiagnosed personality pathology, and the frat boy with deep-seated phobias as a result of an unfortunate childhood trauma. Stiles had _helped_ those people. He used to _help_ people. People with _issues_. _Serious_ issues. And now? Now he was helping students get over their crush on the new professor on campus.

“Hope,” Stiles said without even bothering to pick up his pen. “I can assure you that you are not the only student to ever have harbored such feelings toward one of their instructors.”

In fact there’d been five, this past week alone. Three girls and two guys.

“Honestly, there’s no reason to feel ashamed. It’s really not that unusual for someone your age to feel attracted toward someone older, someone in an authority position. As long as you do not undertake any action that could get you in trouble, emotionally or otherwise, there’s really nothing to worry about.”

 _Five_ people, and they’d all said the exact same things.

“I can’t present when he’s looking at me. I get too nervous.”

“But he’s so good-looking! And so intelligent!”

“I seriously think I might be in love, Mr. Stilinski. It’s, like, interfering with my daily functioning.”

At first it had been amusing, but now they were nearing the end of the semester and Stiles was starting to get pretty fucking fed up with it.

“I can’t deal with this anymore, Scott,” he complained to Scott on the phone when he’d shooed Hope out of his office (after a few more words of encouragement and reassurance, of course— Stiles was nothing if not great at his job) and locked up for the day. “This girl was the sixth. The sixth! I’m starting to think that someone replaced all the drinks in the vending machines with freakin’ love potions or something.”

On the other end of the line, Scott burst into laughter. “What does the guy look like anyway? Must be some sort of sex god.”

“I have no idea.” Stiles padded down the empty hallway. “His profile page on our university website doesn’t have a picture of him yet, I checked. I imagine he’s one of those insufferably arrogant midlife crisis guys with hipster glasses and pepper-and-salt hair, you know the type. He probably teaches Philosophy or something. Undergrads eat that shit up.”

Scott laughed again. “Should I take this to mean you’ve forgotten all about that crush you had on your Social Psychology professor— the one who inspired you to change your major? What was his name again?”

“No, man, that situation was completely different,” Stiles protested. “Mahealani was literally the best teacher ever. He kept doing all these little mindfuck experiments with the class and invited students over for study sessions at his country house. It was impossible not to be a tiny little bit in love with that guy. Plus he was only, like, twenty-five. And I never would have talked to a shrink about him. Or tried to make a move before I graduated.”

(Tragically, Professor Mahealani had left the university for a research position in Stanford a couple of weeks before Stiles had gotten his degree. If he hadn't, Stiles was sure he would have had one hell of a post-graduation party. He still jerked off to the idea of it sometimes.)

“Well, you should try to look at it from the bright side,” Scott said. “At least your students trust you enough to tell you stuff like this. That means you must be doing something right.”

“You always look at everything from the bright side,” Stiles said darkly. At the moment, he didn’t really feel up for optimism of any kind, not even his best friend’s. It had been a pretty hectic day. He was in dire need of recaffeination.

“Isn’t that why you love me? Hey, when are you coming home for Christmas, by the way? Did you book your flight yet?”

Right. Christmas. “Hold on, I’m getting on the elevator. Service might fall away.” Stiles punched in the button for the first floor with a little more force than necessary. “You still there?”

“Yup.”

“Good. What were we saying?”

“Christmas.”

“Right, Christmas.” He watched the numbers on the elevator’s digital indicator slide from 3 to 2—

“So?” Scott prompted. “Have you looked at flights?”

—to 1.

“Not yet,” Stiles said, waving at the desk clerk on his way out of the building. “Dude, Christmas is like, a month away, though. It’ll be fine. Stop harassing me about it.”

“But if you book now it’s less expensive.”

“It’ll be _fine_ , Scott.” He clenched his phone between cheekbone and shoulder as he lit a cigarette and started across the square toward the student center, where he’d finally be reunited with his one true love. Granted, it would be vending machine coffee, which provided only about 15% of the oral orgasm that actual freshly-brewed coffee could provide, but still. Coffee. Coooffee. Blissful, tongue-scalding, headache-vaporizing nectar of the gods.

“I just really can’t wait to see you, that’s all,” Scott said. “It’s been ages, man.”

“I visited in fall break!”

“Yeah, for like, one day.”

“Two days, Scott. I was there for two days.” Stiles took one last deep drag and let the filter drop from his fingers, crunching it into the ground with the heel of his boot. It was cold outside; an icy wind ruffled through his hair and tugged persistently at his coat. “Look, man, I miss you too, but I gotta go now, okay? I’ll talk to you later. Tell Allison I said hi.”

He didn’t smoke much – hadn’t smoked all day – and though the soothing repetitiveness of the act itself tended to calm him down, the flare of nicotine in his veins was only adding to his end-of-day malaise. Fortunately, the university buildings tended to be relatively quiet on Fridays after six, the cafeteria deserted. This was a good thing because at this point, Stiles probably would have had to knock down anyone who tried to stand between him and his caffeine. No one did, though, and the cup of coffee, tiny as it was, felt like sweet, sweet relief.

“Thank God for caffeine,” Stiles murmured to himself, breathing in the steam. He leaned against the vending machine, gingerly holding the rim of the scalding-hot plastic cup between his thumb and index finger. Come to think of it, this was the first moment he had to himself since his lunch break six hours ago. Note to self: stop scheduling more than four consecutive appointments.

Stiles yawned without bothering to cover his mouth and glanced around the empty cafeteria. Friday. Huh. His weekend was looking to be a quiet one; Lydia was off to visit her parents back home for a few days and Erica and Boyd had made it clear they were spending some quality time together this weekend. Not that Stiles minded. Jackson from IT was probably planning a thing; Jackson from IT was _always_ planning a thing. The dude was crazy, but he sure knew how to throw a party.

With his coffee still too hot for consumption, Stiles crossed the near-empty study hall to the faculty lounge. He pushed through the heavy door—

—and was shot in the chest.

Or that’s what he figured getting shot in the chest felt like, anyway.

There was also a sharp burst of pain in his forehead, and a whirlwind of papers raining down around him. But the chest part was definitely the worst part.

“Fuck!” Stiles gasped, dropping his now-empty cup. “Oh fucking _fuck_ , that hurts. Oh Jesus.”

He peeled his button-down away from his body. A dark stain was spreading all over the front. Great; he’d just done a load of white laundry this morning. Stiles inhaled deeply for a sigh but aborted the attempt abruptly. _Fuck._ It felt like a fifth-degree burn was trying to turn a substantial patch of his skin to ashes.

“Damn it,” said the guy who’d bumped into him.

Stiles looked up from his ruined shirt and saw heavy eyebrows, narrowed eyes, and a mouth set in such a tight line it could single-handedly rival Lydia’s entire angryface. Somewhere in a far corner of his mind, he registered that the guy—he looked young, early thirties at most—would be handsome, had he not looked so supremely, frighteningly, homicidally pissed-off.

The guy’s eyes became even squintier. “Are you kidding me?” he bit at Stiles with a flash of teeth. “This is the faculty lounge. Students aren’t allowed in here.”

Indignation rose in Stiles’ poor, abused chest and bunched at the back of his throat. “Excuse me?” he said, pulling his best ‘you came to the wrong neighborhood, motherfucker’ face. “Are _you_ kidding _me?_ I’ve been working here for two years, asshole.” He popped open his shirt and hissed at the sight of his skin, red and raised and actually a little shriveled up in places. It looked just as painful as it felt.

The guy glanced down at Stiles’ bared chest, up at his face, back to his chest, and then up at his face again. “You look young,” he said defensively, but there was no bite in his voice anymore. His cheeks looked a little flushed, too; embarrassment, maybe. Good. He should be embarrassed. Asshole.

“I’m twenty-five, asshole. Jesus. My chest. My _coffee_ ,” Stiles added a little weakly. He felt the vague urge to flop down on the floor and cry. This had been a supremely shitty day. First he’d been late for work because the bus hadn’t showed up, then five exhausting sessions, fucking Professor Hale coming up again, Scott not shutting up Christmas, and now _this_.

The asshole guy got down on his knees and for one tiny little fragment of a millisecond Stiles wondered if his fate was about to take an incredibly random turn for the better, but the guy kept his head lowered and started to gather the scattered sheets of paper. Right. Of course. Because it was somewhat awkward to have a stranger literally sitting at his feet, even when said stranger is an asshole, Stiles crouched down to help.

“Look, I’m sorry,” the guy said once they had silently formed a disorganized pile and scrambled back to their feet. “I’ve had a very long day. You startled me. I usually don’t— I’m sorry for lashing out like that. It’s just been a _really_ long—”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, pitching his cup into the trashcan. “I shouldn’t have called you an asshole. Twice. I have little control over my mouth sometimes. Especially when I’m tired and having a shitty day.”

The guy smiled, which earned him an instant upgrade from ‘good-looking’ to ‘breathtakingly attractive’. “I should probably get you a new cup of coffee.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It was just vending machine garbage anyway.” Stiles fumbled with one of the buckles on his laptop bag. His caffeine headache continued to thrum dimly between his temples.

“No, seriously. I was on my way to Starbucks anyway. Let me get you some coffee. It’s the least I could do.”

“Really, I—”

“If we hurry it’s still buy one get one free on the holiday specials.” The guy smiled again, perfect white teeth and everything. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. “I always try to donate the free one to a random person in the streets, but for some reason no one ever rises to the bait.”

Stiles felt himself smile back a little and decided, _whatever_. It wasn’t as though he had anywhere to be, and if a handsome guy insisted on buying him a drink, well. Worse things could happen. “Okay, fine. I could go for a Pumpkin Spice Latte, I guess.”

“Excellent.” The guy held open the door for him.

Outside, Stiles lit a cigarette. He held out his pack of Luckies to the guy, who said, “No thanks.”

“Hey, what’s your name?” Stiles asked as they walked around the student center and left the campus.

“Oh, it’s Derek.” The guy stopped walking, holding out his hand. Stiles took it. Derek’s shake was warm and firm, lingering. Stiles pushed his hand back into his pocket. His skin was tingling. “I’m Stiles,” he said, belatedly.

Derek squinted at him.

“Yeah, I know. It’s an abbreviation of my last name. Stilinski.”

Tilting his head to the side, Derek said, “I’ve heard that name before.”

“I’m the student psychologist.”

“Ah, right. That explains it,” Derek said, though he sounded unsure still.

“Yeah.” Stiles choked on a lungful of smoke. He coughed. “So, um. What do you do?”

“I teach. Criminal Justice.”

“Nice.”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, I really enjoy the teaching part. The research part not so much anymore, but hey, what do you do.” As they got farther away from the campus, the sidewalk became more densely populated with people rushing by, eager to get home. Stiles had to struggle to keep up with Derek’s long, determined strides. “So what’s it like, being a shrink?” Derek asked.

“I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.” Stiles felt a happy little blip in his chest when he caught sight of the familiar green of the Starbucks sign down the street. Ah, coffee. Sweet sweet nectar of the gods.

The store was warm and smelled comfortably of coffee and food. “I’m sorry, I can never remember the differences, even though Laura lectures me on them all the time,” Derek said as they got in line. “Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?”

Stiles smiled, but his heart gave a painful, unexpected clench and he had to look away.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s— it’s just, that’s exactly what my dad asked,” Stiles said. “It’s actually what he asks every time I’m home. He honestly seems to think I’ve been given access to some sort of magical window into the human soul. We’ll run into a friend or a colleague of his and afterward my dad will be all, what does he really think of me, Stiles, tell me, share your wisdom. But it doesn’t really work like that. It really doesn’t. And psychoanalysis is a specific theory,” he couldn’t help but add. “A far-fetched and horribly outdated one at that.”

“I knew that.” Derek smiled and bumped their shoulders together. “I’m sorry, I’m teasing. My sister’s a psychiatrist. She says that question drives her mad.”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t really mind.”

“You wanted a Pumpkin Spice Latte, right?”

“Yeah. It’s my favorite.”

Derek ordered two Venti drinks and paid. Stiles’ cheeks heated up at the idea of someone buying him coffee. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. It felt nice— especially because Derek had pleasant eyes and very good cheekbones and the scruffy kind of stubble beard that Stiles was pretty sure counted as a universal turn-on. He’d been seen with less attractive men, that much was certain.

Leaning on the counter at the end of the bar, Derek peered at Stiles curiously.

“Dude,” Stiles said, after looking away and looking back twice. “Stop it. I’m not analyzing you.”

Derek smiled and said “Sorry,” but he didn’t sound sorry.

They collected their drinks. It was dark outside already, and starting to get seriously cold. “Fucking winter,” Stiles muttered, scowling at the wind.

“Seriously?” Derek was cradling his cup to his chest, the collar of his black trench-coat turned up high. The frayed ends of his scarf were floating after him. “Winter is my favorite season.”

“Seriously?” Stiles echoed, not even on purpose. “What about the cold? And the darkness?”

“I don’t really mind the cold. And I love the Christmas lights everywhere,” Derek said. “I can’t wait for it to start snowing. I’m having lots of family over for the break. My parents, my sister with the kids. It’ll be great. Hot chocolate, presents, good food, snow, a nice fire in the hearth…”

Stiles’ chest ached a little. Probably because of the burn. “Sounds nice.” He took a long drink from his latte.

Back on campus, Derek slowed down near the parking lot. “Hey, I’m gonna head home.”

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles said, hopping from one foot to the other to keep from freezing, which wasn’t nearly as effective as he’d hoped it would be. “Uh, thanks for the coffee.”

“Can I give you a ride?” Derek offered. “I mean, I could—”

Stiles shook his head. “No, I’m fine, I’m all good. Thanks though. For offering.”

“Okay. Thank _you_ ,” Derek said, “for adopting my extra drink so I didn’t have to go through the humiliation of trying and failing to pass it off onto an unsuspecting passerby.”

“Thanks for the third-degree burn,” Stiles said.

“Thank you for calling me an asshole. And spilling awful chemical coffee all over my important paperwork. Much appreciated.”

Stiles grinned. “All right, well. I’ll see you around.”

“Bye, Stiles.”

Stiles lit up while Derek got into an obnoxiously expensive-looking car, waved, and sped off. Then he flung away his half-smoked cigarette and headed back toward the city center, in the direction of the bus station. The Starbucks cup was a welcome source of warmth between his palms as he flopped down on a freezing bench to sit out the forty-five minutes it would take for the bus to get there.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Jackson from IT did have a party planned. On Saturday afternoon, after a laid-back morning of catching up with _Criminal Minds_ and helping his elderly landlady clean out the shed, Stiles received an ominous text message: **You better be coming over tonight Stilinski 11 oclock dont bother bringing booze its all provided**.

He spent most of the next day in bed, sleeping off his hangover. Alcohol, it turned out time and time again, was not Stiles’ friend. It would _pretend_ to be, on the night itself, but he always made the mistake of not keeping track of how much he drank. By the time it occurred to him that he probably should start drinking water instead of beer or tequila at some point, his prefrontal cortex was already too far gone to care. In combination with all the inevitable party smoking, he now felt like the moldy, shriveled-up potato he’d found behind the fridge a couple of days ago. Great.

At three o’clock, Mrs. Hudson brought in a platter with buttered toast, aspirin, water, and coffee.

“Mrs. Hudson, you are the best landlady _ever_ ,” Stiles declared, reaching for the steaming cup with both hands. “I have no idea what I would do without you.”

“Water and aspirin first!” she chastised. “Did you have a good night, dear?”

Stiles took a sip from the coffee, which had been made just the way he liked it – a splash of milk and a shitload of sugar. God, he loved Mrs. Hudson. “Uh, I think so?”

Mrs. Hudson laughed and shook her head, muttering a good-natured “Kids these days…” as she shuffled out of the room. (Stiles had never actively tried to correct her assumption that he was still an undergraduate student.) **Good party?!** he sent to Jackson, who immediately replied with **Stiles you slut I cant believe you turned down my friend hes so hot**.

Well, that was a contradictory statement. **Que pasa?** Stiles texted back as he nibbled on his toast. Maybe he should drink less. He closed his eyes and managed to recall, with some difficulty, a hazy memory of wandering hands and smoldering eyes and a tongue tasting of tobacco and sweet but strong liquor.

His phone started buzzing. “You seriously don’t remember?” Jackson said as soon as Stiles picked up. “Oh man, Matt is gonna be so pissed. He thought you were the absolute shit. He wanted you so bad. I can’t believe you didn’t put out.”

“I remember _some_ things,” Stiles defended himself. “I wasn’t, like, black-out drunk, though, right? Or was I?”

“Nah. Just the usual,” Jackson said. “Besides, everyone was drunk. Bro, Matt really thought he had a chance, though. He was chatting you up all night. Might have been my fault, actually, I told him you probably wouldn’t be too hard to get.”

Stiles frowned. Bits and pieces of his conversation with some guy - Matt, apparently - came floating back. “But nothing happened, right?”

“He drove you home, man!” Jackson said, erupting into his typical frat boy laugh. “He said he asked if he could come in with you but you said no, your landlady was asleep, and then he offered to blow you in the car and he said you kind of patted his cheek and said ‘thanks, but you’re not the prettiest guy I’ve met this week’ and then you made out with him and left. I can’t believe you said that, man.”

“Oh God,” Stiles said. “That is not a nice way to treat people.” There were words to be had with his drunk self. Stern words.

Jackson douchebag-chuckled some more. “Ah well, I said to him you’ll probably be there next time so be extra nice to him, a’ight bro? His poor ego took a huge blow there.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“Maybe suck his dick just to make up for last night. Man, I can’t believe you of all people turned down a free blowjob. Okay, fuck, I think my one night stand is waking up. Morning baby. See you next week, bro. Tell Mrs. Hudson I said hi.”

Yeah, Jackson was absolutely certified crazy. Stiles let his phone fall to the mattress and snuggled deeper into his blankets for another nap.

 

* * *

 

The next day, snow started falling. There had been a few bouts of wet snow before, but now it was for real _snowing_ , earnest flakes that managed to form a thick white carpet in the few hours between Stiles’ arrival at work and his lunch break. As he sat eating his sandwiches in the cafeteria, he watched students having a snowball fight on the grounds outside. It was awesome. Even though he didn’t like winter much, the snow almost made up for the cold. Almost.

His yearly evaluation was coming up, and Stiles had just finished the required paperwork when there was a knock on his office door. He frowned up at the clock; his next appointment wasn’t due for another half hour, almost. “Come in,” he called.

It was the handsome guy from Friday, Derek, carefully balancing two Venti Starbucks cups in one hand as he pushed into Stiles’ office. “Hi,” he said. He sounded slightly out of breath. His cheeks were blotched red and snowflakes were melting in his hair and in his stubble.

“Hi,” Stiles said dumbly. “You… brought me coffee?”

“Um, yes. Yes, I did,” Derek said, glancing down. “Pumpkin Spice Latte, right? Your schedule was—I mean, I thought I might as well get two. Y’know. Holiday specials.”

Stiles was pretty sure the holiday specials were only during specific times, but he wasn’t going to look a gift drink in the… cup, he supposed. “ _Awesome_ ,” he said, not very professionally. Derek smiled and passed him the coffee.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Stiles cradled the warm cup to his cheek for a few seconds before taking off the lid and inhaling the warm smell of pumpkin spice. He carefully put the lid back on and took a long swig, choking back a pleased hum. When he glanced up again, there was an amused glint in Derek’s eyes.

“Coffee,” Stiles said with an apologetic shrug. Derek looked good on his threadbare psychologist’s couch. “Hey, what was that you were trying to say about my schedule earlier?”

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

“Yes you were. You said ‘your schedule was’ and then distracted me with my favorite drink,” Stiles said accusingly. “But my schedule is confidential, it isn’t published anywhere.”

Derek had the decency to blush. “I may have double-majored in Computer Programming. I know things. Some things.”

All right then. A hot guy with cute teeth and perfect stubble had hacked into the intranet to check Stiles’ schedule so he could bring him coffee. Must be a Monday.

Derek patted the cracked-leather cushion of the couch. “I like this. Makes me want to lie back and talk about my feelings.”

Stiles made an arm gesture that almost made his Starbucks cup topple over. “By all means. I’ve got twenty minutes,” he said.

Derek eased into a horizontal position and stretched out his legs, one arm crossed behind his head. His coat fell open to reveal the soft-looking, light blue sweater underneath. It was a color that looked great on him; then again, Stiles wasn’t sure if there was a color that wouldn't look good on him. “All right. What are we talking about?”

“Um. Your childhood,” Stiles improvised, distracted by the way the snow had melted Derek’s hair floppily down onto his forehead.

“Of course. A golden oldie. I’ve got to say there’s not a lot of trauma to be found there, though.” Derek took a sip from his drink. “Youngest child, three siblings, securely attached…”

“Older brothers or older sisters?”

“Both. Laura’s the eldest and I’ve got two brothers, twins.”

“What do they do?”

“Laura’s a psychiatrist, as you already know. My brothers own a software company.”

“All university-educated,” Stiles half-asked, half-stated.

Derek’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “Yeah.”

“How old were you when you got appointed full professor?”

“I never told you I’m a full professor. Did you google me?”

“No. I assumed. I don’t even know your last name,” Stiles pointed out.

“Fair enough. I was twenty-nine.”

“That’s pretty young.”

“ _You_ ’re pretty young to be a psychologist, too.”

Deflection. Stiles threaded his fingers together and rested his chin on them. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Beacon Hills,” Derek said, blinking a few times and frowning a little. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Beacon Hills?” Stiles raised his head. “No way, dude, _I_ grew up in Beacon Hills!”

Derek stared at him. Something seemed to click in his brain. “Are you related to the Sheriff?”

“Yeah, he’s my dad. This is such a coincidence.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you around there,” Derek said. “It’s not like it’s a huge town or anything.”

“Right,” Stiles said. “I’m not— I don’t go back very often these days. Too busy.”

A knock on the door stopped Derek from saying whatever he was going to next. Stiles glanced up at the clock. George had arrived early today. Then again, he always did.

“Looks like your four o’clock appointment’s here,” Derek said, sliding smoothly off the couch.

Stiles nodded. “Thank you so much for the coffee.”

Derek smiled and opened the door. George (an undergrad; he was required to meet with Stiles every Monday since being put on academic probation for keying an instructor’s car) stared up at him with a look of… was that amazement?

“Hello there,” Derek said. “Bye Stiles!” he called over his shoulder.

“See you,” Stiles said, biting down on a smile. “Come on in, George.”

 

* * *

 

All right. Stiles had been patient. For weeks, he’d tolerated his students’ love-struck monologues about that Philosophy professor with pepper-and-salt hair and a midlife crisis. He had listened attentively, given advice. But today marked the tenth person who had cited their crush on Hale as a factor that was affecting their grades and their ability to concentrate, and Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“Could you check if Professor Hale is in today, please?” he asked Sylvie from the welcome desk, who was somehow tapping away at her keyboard at lightning speed despite her three inch nails which could not be rivaled even by Lydia’s weekly manicure.

“Oh, Stiles!” Sylvie smiled widely. “I gotta say, I was surprised when I heard he was still single, such a beautiful man, and so intelligent too, if he weren’t gay I’d— anyway, you and _Hale_?”

“What? I don’t even know him. I just need to ask him something.”

“Sure you do,” Sylvie said with an interesting eyebrow wiggle. “He’s in the Fincher building, in the auditorium. If you hurry you can catch him before he leaves for lunch.”

“Perfect. Thanks!” Stiles said, hurrying off to the other building to give Hale a piece of his mind. He was probably overreacting. Fine. He didn’t care. This asshole was messing with all his sessions, unwittingly or not, and he’d had _enough_ of it. Something had to change. Maybe he should hang out in the back of the class to see if Hale was crossing a line somewhere; who knows, there could be reason to get him reviewed, maybe even fired…

Stiles rushed across the university grounds. He could barely even feel the cold against the skin of his arms out of sheer frustration. He should’ve probably had coffee before embarking on his war path. Or lunch. Or breakfast. Mrs. Hudson was forever chastening him about his forgetfulness when it came to eating. But whatever. He was on his way now, and nothing - _nothing_ \- was going to stop him.

“Professor Hale, a word?” he snapped as he stalked into the auditorium, which was empty except for the instructor’s desk on the stage, where—

Derek was sitting.

“Stiles!” Derek said, eyes scrunching up as he smiled. “Hi.”

Stiles came to an abrupt halt. “Derek?”

Derek’s smile turned a little hesitant. “Yes?”

“ _You’re_ Professor Hale?” Stiles said, loud enough for his voice to echo around the lecture hall. He didn’t even know why he was so surprised; it kind of made sense. In fact, it made a lot of sense. Derek’s face, his soft smile, the sleeves of his cardigan pushed back around his upper arms like that… if Stiles were taking one of Derek’s classes, he’d probably be one of those infuriating students who always sat in the front row, obnoxiously scribbling page after page of notes and raising their hand to answer every question. Of _course_ Derek was the hot new professor on campus.

“Yes?” Derek said. He was frowning by now. “What did I do? Is something wrong?”

Come to think of it, Stiles had only ever seen him with his coat on before. As far as he could tell right now, Derek had a ridiculously good body, all broad shoulders and well-defined pecs and threads of muscle shifting beneath the tanned skin of his arms. Jesus. Some people really did have it all. His dick was probably all nice and thick and good-looking, too.

“Stiles,” Derek said. “You’re shivering.”

Right. Winter. Stiles looked down at his arms, which had goose bumps all over. “Oh,” he said. “Shit.”

Derek got up from the desk and crossed the stage, taking off his cardigan in the process—not by unbuttoning it, like a normal person would, but by pulling it over his head, a sliver of skin visible as his button-down rode up his stomach. Stiles caught sight of a dark trail of hair leading down into the waistband of his boxers before Derek tugged the shirt back down and sheepishly held out the cardigan. “Here.”

“I shouldn’t—” Stiles said, but Derek draped it around his shoulders anyway. Its warmth felt so good against his freezing skin that he pulled it closer automatically. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“I use extra soft washing detergent,” Derek said earnestly, and Stiles kind of wanted to push him back against the desk and kiss him just for that. “Why are you here?”

“Um. Nothing.” Stiles shook his head vehemently. “I was gonna— but then I— why did you not tell me your last name? Hale as in, the Hale mansion? You guys throw the New Year’s Eve bonfire parties!”

Derek grimaced. “Yep, that’s my parents. They always start planning in, like, February. It’s their absolute favorite night of the year.”

“Wow,” Stiles said. He felt slightly breathless. Brief flashes of the past reached for him with eager little hands from a faraway corner of his mind. They’d gone every year, he and his mom, until— and then he and his dad had continued the tradition, painful as it had been to be at the huge bonfire (the buzz of animated conversation, children running around, toddlers tugging at their mother’s coat to get her attention) without her. To this day, Stiles’ fondest memories of his mom were closely entwined with the smell of mulled wine and melting marshmallows and the bittersweet scent of burning wood.

“Would you like to grab lunch somewhere together?” Derek said, studying Stiles’ face.

“Um—” Stiles swallowed. “I brought sandwiches.”

“My treat,” Derek said.

“You paid for coffee already.”

“I’m a full professor. I’m completely overpaid.”

“I don’t…”

“Please?” Derek said. “There’s this new sushi place around the corner and I’ve been dying to check it out ever since it opened. You’d be doing me a huge favor, really.”

Stiles hesitated. He hadn’t had sushi in forever. “All right, but only if you promise not to buy me anything else this week,” he said.

Derek grinned. “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles was halfway through another session with Hope when Erica stormed into his office. “All right, kiddo, your shrink time’s up,” she said, flopping down on the couch and making dismissive hand motions in Hope’s direction.

Hope stared at her with wide eyes.

“Erica!” Stiles spluttered. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I just emailed you. I need an emergency consultation. It’s in the student handbook. Section five point three point get the fuck _out_ ,” she said to Hope, who hurried to her feet and stammered, “I’ll— I’ll see you next week, Mr. Stilinski,” fluttering out of the office with her purse cradled protectively to her chest before Stiles could even attempt to articulate an objection.

Erica leaned back with a satisfied smile.

“You are the worst person I have ever met,” Stiles said flatly. “Is this how you treat your own students? How do you even have any left?”

“Oh, Stiles. Sweet summer child. You obviously have no idea how popular Gender Studies is these days. Also, everyone loves me because I encourage the consumption of alcoholic beverages and deep-fried food during evening classes.” Erica shook out her curls. “So, you and Hale?”

“Me and— what?” Stiles’ face felt hot all of a sudden.

“Spoke to Sylvie. I gotta say, Stiles, I’m a little hurt you told _her_ before you told me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone anything. Sylvie is—”

“Did you suck him off yet? What’s his dick look like? God, I bet he looks amazing without a shirt on. Hey, we should tell Boyd to have his Intro class kids write a paper comparing Derek Hale’s body to that of an early Classical period kouros. I bet the resemblance is uncanny. I’d be totally willing to take pictures. For reference. If you don’t mind, of course. Wouldn’t want to step on your toes. I mean, dibs are dibs, after all. Gotta stick to the bro code.”

Stiles’ cheeks were positively burning. “Erica, he brought me coffee once! There’s nothing going on.”

Erica raised one eyebrow. “I heard you two went for lunch the other day at the expensive new sushi place. Rumor has it he even paid for you.”

Stiles added _order hit on Sylvie_ to his to-do list and underlined it three times. In red pen. “We grew up in the same town. We were just—”

“Stiles, no offense, but I know you. There’s no way you’re not hitting that like the fist of an angry god. In fact, it’d be an insult to the entire universe if you weren’t. Do you have any idea how much effort it must have taken natural selection to create such a beautiful specimen? Perfection is hard work, Stiles.”

“You’re talking nonsense. I may need to diagnose you with a personality disorder.”

“Another one?” Erica pouted. “Seriously, though, you really haven’t…”

With an almost painful eye-roll, Stiles said, “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t lie back and spread my legs for _every_ guy that crosses my path.”

Erica looked doubtful.

“Okay, you know what? Session’s over. Go annoy someone else.” He tried to make it sound light-hearted, but his voice sounded a little off. Erica must have noticed too, because she got up and walked around his desk to throw her arms around him for a second. “I love you really. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, sure you do,” Stiles grumbled, watching her leave. He opened his inbox; Erica had indeed sent him a message, at 4:24PM, stating _We need to talk!!! I’m coming over!_ Interestingly, there was also an email from his dad.

_Stiles,_

_Happy to hear from Scott you’re coming over for Christmas. Let me know details so I can pick you up from the airport._

_Hope you’re well._

_\- Your father._

_P.S. Wife says hi._

Stiles hit delete and exited out of the browser. He leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his head in his hands. There was a rap of knuckles on the door, but he ignored it. Maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, whoever it was would leave.

“Stiles?” a muffled voice accompanied the second knock. Stiles’ heart did not start beating faster when he realized it was Derek. It _didn’t_. “Yeah, come in,” he called out.

“I know you said not to buy you any more things this week, but it just kind of happened,” Derek said. He put a Venti cup on Stiles’ desk. “Um, it’s a double shot. I remembered you saying your Fridays are usually quite draining, so.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, staring at the cup in hopes of finding, somehow, an explanation for the fact that something which should make him happy – hot professor bringing him coffee and smiling at him with bright eyes – was making him feel so heavy inside. The cup didn’t offer any answers, though; all it said was DEREK :) in black letters and _Careful, the beverage you’re about to enjoy is extremely hot_ in a calm green.

“Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” Stiles said. He traced the rim of the cup with his finger.

“Maybe I should get you a triple shot next time.”

 _Next time._ Stiles allowed himself to smile at that. “You know, I used to not be able to handle coffee at all.”

“Really?” Derek asked, perching on the armrest of the couch with an expectant expression.

“Yeah. Even just one cup would get me all jittery and unable to focus. I was a pretty hyperactive kid in high school. And primary school.” He pulled a face. “But look at me now – daily consumption of caffeine, nicotine, whatnot, and I’m still worn out by the end of the day. My pediatricians would consider it a miracle, I’m sure.”

“Maybe you work too much,” Derek said seriously.

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a normal workweek. When you guys get home you still have papers to grade and classes to prepare and your own research to work on and stuff like that. I don’t.”

“Well, you’re in office all the time,” Derek pointed out. “I only teach a few classes a week. And what you do is more demanding on an emotional level. Laura never worked full-time.”

Stiles took a sip from his latte. Sweet mother of Christ, it tasted _good._ He almost moaned. Derek was looking at him with calm, amused eyes. It was kind of ridiculous, really, that someone with cheekbones like that was sitting on the armrest of Stiles’ couch, watching him drink coffee as though it was something to be content about.

For some reason – maybe because his father’s email had reminded him of her, or just because he was tired – Stiles thought about _her_ , her face, soft, nice, the way she always looked (housewifely, motherly). It made him irrationally angry, like an elastic band that had been tied around his chest had suddenly snapped. He set his cup down harder than he meant to. Some of its contents spilled through the hole in the lid.

“Damnit,” Stiles muttered, patting at the coffee stain with his sleeve. “Is today over yet?”

“Twenty minutes,” Derek said. “Got any big plans for the weekend?”

“I was supposed to go out for drinks with Erica, Boyd, and Lydia.” Derek’s brow furrowed, so Stiles clarified, “Professor Reyes from Gender Studies and Professor Boyd from Art History. They’re married. And Lydia Martin is a registrar, you must’ve heard of her.”

“Ah, right.” Derek smiled apologetically. “I know Lydia, but I wouldn’t be able to identify Reyes or Boyd in a crowd. I don’t generally have a lot of contact with the Humanities people.”

“You should. They’re hilarious.” Also infuriating at times, but mostly hilarious.

Derek laughed. “I’m still having trouble matching names and faces in my own department, to be honest. There’s this one guy, I have no clue if he’s even on the staff at all. He keeps coming to my office to talk about random things. I have no idea what to do with him.”

“Maybe he’s hitting on you,” Stiles said. He felt himself flush about ninety different shades of red as he realized what he was implying.

Derek laughed again – a deep, throaty laugh that showed off his teeth and made his eyes crinkle around the edges – and scratched at his beard. “Yeah, good point. Maybe he is.”

“Hey, you should come tonight,” Stiles blurted out as he watched Derek’s fingers move absently through his stubble. “Meet the Arts and Humanities loonies. If you— if you didn’t already have plans, of course.”

“My only plan was to drain a bottle of red and to try not to kill myself during the editing process of my upcoming publication,” Derek deadpanned. “Wouldn’t your friends mind if I tagged along?”

Stiles reflected on his earlier conversation with Erica and grimaced. Maybe bringing Derek wasn’t such a good idea after all. “On the contrary, I’m pretty sure they’ll be ecstatic.”

Derek beamed at him.

 

* * *

 

His friends _were_ ecstatic. Erica spent the first two hours making lewd jokes and winking exaggeratedly in Stiles’ direction. She stopped after her fourth glass of white wine, when she became too preoccupied with Boyd to continue trying to bully Stiles into admitting that he wanted to fuck Derek’s brains out and vice versa. Lydia took over. She was possibly even worse than Erica, approaching Derek with a cool haughtiness eerily reminiscent of Cersei in _Game of Thrones_.

All things considered, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been.

It was interesting to see Derek in a casual situation – an actual casual situation, as opposed to lunch during work hours or a quick coffee right after. He was wearing glasses and a navy blue polo shirt that spanned tightly across his chest. He looked more like a stripper cop than a full professor. The more beer Stiles had, the harder it was not to squeeze Derek’s biceps just to see how serious those muscles were, to check if they would be strong enough to hold him up in the shower or hold him down in bed. Fuck, they probably were.

“’m going for a smoke,” Stiles murmured into Derek’s ear after downing his sixth beer. “Will you be all right with the loonies?”

On the other side of the booth, Lydia was ticking her nails against the table with a bored yet homicidal look on her face. Erica and Boyd were making out. “I’ll come,” Derek said, hastily getting up and grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. Stiles grinned.

It was snowing, which meant it should be cold, but Stiles didn’t feel cold. The happy buzz of alcohol in his veins made him take a step closer to Derek after he lit his cigarette. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, turning away to exhale a long plume of smoke in the other direction.

Derek chuckled. “They’re pretty intense.” His eyelashes were casting long shadows on his cheeks. He looked even broader in his leather jacket. Stiles had no idea how people could stand being around him and manage to suppress the urge to jump him 24/7. He crowded just a little closer.

“What, you don’t like my friends?” he asked teasingly, head cocked to the side.

Derek shook his head. “No, I do. They’re obviously very…”

He continued to talk, but right now Stiles wasn’t all that interested in what Derek had to say anymore. He was more interested in leaning forward and curving his hand around the back of Derek’s neck— and when he felt his fingertips slide into the short, soft hair there he just _had_ to lean in and align his mouth with Derek’s.

Derek made some sort of noise. A hand settled on Stiles’ side. When Stiles pressed against him and tried to pry Derek’s lips apart with his tongue, though, there was no response.

He stepped back.

Derek was frozen in place, eyebrows drawn together.

“Whoa,” Stiles said, blood rushing to his ears. “Whoa, all right, I’m sorry, whoa.”

Derek continued to look pained.

The utter humiliation of the moment made Stiles’ stomach plummet. He took a nervous, shallow drag from his cigarette. “Sorry, I really thought—” His throat actually felt a little constricted. Fuck. He’d fucked this up. Hot guy, _nice_ guy, and he’d fucked it up. Of course he’d fucked it up.

With a firm shake of his head, Derek said, softly, “No. Don’t apologize.”

“Dude, I just—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted him. “It’s not as though I don’t— it’s that I… it… you… we— I only met you a week ago.”

“Uh,” Stiles said. His alcohol-befuddled mind whispered, _So what? I’ve lost track of the number of guys I’ve fucked within minutes of getting to know them._ He swallowed back the words, something telling him it was not the right thing to say right now. (‘Something’ being the tight lines around Derek’s mouth and the way he was clenching his hands to fists.)

“Let’s just…” Derek faltered again. He blinked away. “Can we take this slow?”

“Slow?” Stiles echoed.

“Yeah. I… I’m, I find you attractive, Stiles.” It sounded a bit static, a bit artificial, but Derek was obviously struggling to form words, so Stiles decided to let him off the hook. “And I’m really liking… this. Liking getting to know you. But I don’t— I can’t…” Derek made a frustrated noise. He still wasn’t looking at Stiles, his gaze focused on someplace in the vicinity of Stiles’ earlobe. “Can we just…”

“Take it slow, yeah, yeah,” Stiles said. The panicked rush in his ears began to calm down. “That’s not really my style, man.”

Derek’s gaze shot up to meet his.

“Which is not to say,” Stiles hurried to add, “not to say that I don’t want to. Because I do. I think I do. I can try. I mean…” He winced. “Could we maybe have this conversation some other time?”

“I think that might be best.” The frown was finally starting to ebb away from Derek’s face; the ghost of a smile settled around his lips again. “Maybe a movie next week? Something like that?”

“That would be nice,” Stiles said.

“Good,” Derek said, sounding relieved. “I’ll text you then. Tomorrow. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Derek shoved his hands into his pockets. “I should probably get going now.”

“What, you’re not going to say goodbye to my excellent friends?”

Derek’s face finally relaxed into a full smile. “I’ll text you,” he repeated, and leaned in to wrap an arm around Stiles’ neck and press a long, slightly wet kiss to the edge of his jaw. It was, somehow, hotter than many of the actual full-blown make-out sessions Stiles had been involved in.

“Okay,” he murmured, watching Derek’s hunched figure recede down the street as he walked away through the falling snow.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was almost asleep when his phone buzzed later that night.

 **My previous relationship didn’t end well** , the message said. It was from Derek. **So. That’s why.**

Stiles blinked blearily at the screen. **I’ve never been in a serious relationship** , he texted back without really thinking about it. To lighten the mood, he added, **Another secret: my favorite dessert is apple pie**.

A few hours later, he woke to a text saying, **My favorite book is Brave New World**.

He smiled, replied, **I bite my nails**.

 

* * *

 

They continued to text each other secrets and confessions and other stupid little facts about themselves for the rest of the weekend. Derek sent him **My favorite color is light blue** and Stiles responded **Mine’s red** ; Derek texted **When I was** **16 I broke my wrist while arm-wrestling Laura** and Stiles confessed **I liked the adaptation of Cloud Atlas better than the book** , to which Derek just replied **What?!**

On Sunday, Stiles went for lunch with Lydia. While she was off to the restrooms, he received a message saying, **I hate dress shoes. I just want to wear sneakers to work damnit**. He sent back, **I don’t like salmon**.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” Lydia demanded as she slid back into her seat.

“Nothing.” Stiles put his phone face-down on the edge of the table.

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you texting with Derek?”

“Maybe,” Stiles said, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Oh my God, look at your _face_ ,” Lydia said. “Are you _falling_ for him?”

Stiles scoffed. “We haven’t even kissed yet.”

“Oh, right. Taking it slow,” Lydia smirked. “You know, I don’t think there’s been a single day in your life where you took anything slow.”

“Wow. You guys have so much faith in me, it’s unreal.” The waiter arrived with their wine. They clunked the glasses together. Stiles took a deep swig.

“I don’t blame you, though,” Lydia said, setting her glass down. “If someone like Professor Hale asked me to take things slow…”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “Who’s to say _I’m_ not the one who wanted to take things slow?”

Lydia raised one eyebrow at him.

Stiles scowled at her. “Just because I’m not the kind of person who falls in and out of ‘love’ every other month or strikes up serious relationships like they’re matches doesn’t mean I don’t want to _ever_ give it a shot,” he said. “And Derek is— he’s nice, okay. He’s not just a hot body. I mean, you know I don’t have any problems whatsoever with a hot body, but. He’s really nice.”

“It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” Lydia said. “Who are you, and what did you do to my Stiles?”

Stiles felt a twist of annoyance in his gut, hot and heavy.

“God, I can’t believe you’re dating someone,” Lydia continued.

“We’re not _dating_. We’re getting to know each other.”

“Still. You hate dating. You don’t _do_ dating.”

“I know, okay? I _know_ ,” Stiles said, struggling to keep his voice down. “I’ll just see where this goes. And, seriously, thanks for the vote of confidence. Just so you know, for future reference, this really doesn’t help.”

Lydia’s face softened. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles straightened up gratefully when he saw the waiter approach the table with their food.

As he took the first bite of his salad, his phone buzzed with another message. Stiles bit down on his bottom lip and glanced at Lydia, who nodded at it and said, “You better don’t keep a guy like that waiting.”

 **I kissed Jennifer Lawrence once – long story** , Derek had sent.

Stiles snorted. He tried to come up with something equally funny, but he couldn’t think of anything. Instead, he typed **I kind of hate my dad’s wife** , his heart rate accelerating a little as he pressed ‘Send’.

It took Derek almost two hours to reply. By that time, Stiles had hugged Lydia goodbye and set off on his walk home. His mind was swaying a little, body relaxed and loose-limbed. Wine always hit Stiles harder than any other type of alcoholic beverage, for some reason. He pulled his phone from his pocket and read, **My psychotic ex burned our house in NY down.**

He frowned down at the screen and typed **My mom died when I was thirteen** but saved it as a draft and instead hit ‘Call’.

Derek picked up on the second ring. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Stiles said, breath forming a cloud in front of his face. “Serious business, man.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, but he didn’t sound too bothered. He sounded like he was smiling, which made Stiles smile in return. “It’s been a while. I mean, I don’t have fond memories of it, obviously, but it’s been a while.”

“Great fodder for a shrink, though. Silver lining.”

Derek let out a deep-chested burst of laughter. “You wanna come over and psychoanalyze me?”

“No, man,” Stiles said, wrinkling his nose. “Freud is totally not my style. I mean, the unconscious is super important, sure, he was right about that, and I like the repression part, but the whole dream interpretation thing, and the whole wanting to fuck your mom and kill your dad thing, that’s just _weird_ , isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed. “Also, I was wondering the other day, how does that even work for people who don’t identify with the sex they were born with? I mean, if I identified as a woman, does that mean I would want to kill my mom and fuck my dad? Or is it tied to your biological sex? I don’t think Freud really took any of that into account.”

Derek had a nice voice, Stiles realized; not quite as deep as you might expect with the whole rugged-beard, manly-muscles thing he had going on, but nice. Calm. The kind of voice you’d want to listen to on a rainy morning in bed.

“Hello?” Derek asked.

Stiles nearly slipped on a particularly icy patch of sidewalk. “Whoa,” he said, and then, “yes, yes, I’m still here. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Thinking about how you have a nice voice,” Stiles said. “Maybe I should come to one of your lectures.”

Derek snorted. “I had no idea you were interested in the topic of criminal justice.”

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Yet,” Derek said, quietly.

“What?”

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you yet.”

Stiles smiled, but at the same time it felt as though a cold little hand was clamping around his Adam’s apple from behind. The hint of nausea dissipated after a second, but not before it made him choke out, “I don’t really do this, you know.”

“What?”

“Dating. Stuff. I don’t know. Things like this. I don’t really… do this.”

Derek was quiet for a while. “Yeah,” he said, and he sounded hurt, disappointed. “You told me before.”

“Dude, no, that’s not what I meant,” Stiles said, cursing the alcohol in his system for making his brain feel too fuzzy to explain this properly. “I don’t mean— like I said before, I’m not saying I don’t want to try. I just want you to know I don’t generally do this. Dating. Whatever. Just saying, you know. In case I— never mind. I don’t know. I’m just saying.”

“Okay,” Derek repeated, but his tone of voice was lighter now. “You do realize we haven’t actually been on a date yet, right?”

“Right,” Stiles said. “I was just. Saying.”

“Maybe we should arrange something. So you can just say this to me some more.”

Stiles gasped. “Derek, are you mocking me?”

“I’m a gentleman. I would never.”

Stiles exhaled the deep breath that had been building in his chest without his awareness or approval. Flirting. Right. Flirting was something he knew. Flirting was familiar territory. Sure, it was easier with a drink in his hand and the physical presence of a body to lean closer to or to touch lightly on the arm as he laughed, but still. Flirting was something Stiles was good at.

“We could go see a movie next week?” Derek said. “ _The Hobbit_ is out. I mean, I’ve seen it three times already, but—”

“I watched a bootleg copy,” Stiles admitted, pulling a guilty face even though Derek couldn’t see.

“No way. You’re joking, right? That’s blasphemy.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that 3D is so expensive.”

“Stiles, this is _Tolkien_ we’re talking about,” Derek said. “God, I’m not sure I even want to go out with you anymore.”

Wow. Derek was an even bigger nerd than he was. “You ain’t foolin’ no one, Professor Hale. I know you want me.”

The pause between his words and Derek’s next utterance was long enough to tell Stiles he was right, which was strangely elating. “You could come over to my place,” Derek said. “Watch a movie here.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles tried not to sound too eager. “Oh, can we watch _Love Actually_? I mean, Christmas is only like two weeks away…” Fuck, two weeks. He should have bought a plane ticket weeks ago, like Scott had repeatedly commanded him to do. They were probably too expensive now. He’d have to get an interstate bus.

“I think Laura might still have my DVD of _Love Actually_. But we’ll figure something out,” Derek said. “When are you free?”

“I work every day till five, so anytime, really.”

Derek huffed contemplatively. “Wednesday?”

“Um. I think I might have a meeting with my supervisor on Wednesday, actually. How about Thursday?”

“I have yoga class on Tuesday and Thursday.”

Of _course_ Derek practiced yoga. “Tomorrow?” Stiles suggested, his heart fluttering up his throat.

“I can’t. I’m having dinner with my brother.”

Damn. This kind of shit went down a lot easier in the movies. Someone would just yell ‘tomorrow at eight’ and that would be it. Real life was so much messier, so much more complicated.

“Friday?” Stiles said.

“I could do Friday,” Derek said. “Eight thirty?”

“Works for me. Is there a bus station near your house?”

“Not really, but I don’t mind picking you up.”

“Dude, no, I—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted. “I can pick you up. Give me your address.”

After they’d hung up, Stiles’ phone screen flashed him Derek’s text about the psychotic ex as well as his own unsent message **My mom died when I was thirteen**. After a moment of hesitation, he pressed ‘Send’ anyway.

 

* * *

 

Derek brought him coffee again on Monday. That morning, Stiles had received **I actually quite liked Twilight** during breakfast; he’d sent back **Sometimes I spend an entire weekend ignoring the world and playing the Sims for hours on end**.

Their fingertips brushed against each other as Derek passed the Pumpkin Spice Latte, and Stiles was glad to see his stupid smile reflected on Derek’s face.

 

* * *

 

Stiles: **I once stole my dad’s gun to shoot at trees in the backyard. He was so angry**.

Derek: **Laura told me I had dissociative fugue when I was thirteen and I believed her.**

 

* * *

 

Stiles: **I’m not very good at holding my liquor**.

Derek: **I smoked weed once. Hated it.**

 

* * *

 

Derek: **Sometimes I still feel inferior compared to my older brothers.**

Stiles: **I don’t really want to go home for Christmas**.

 

* * *

 

Derek: **I used to want kids before Kate happened.**

Stiles: **My mom had a miscarriage. I should’ve had a baby brother**.

 

* * *

 

Derek: **Is it Friday yet?**

Stiles: **Almost.**

 

* * *

 

Stiles was half-expecting it to be awkward to see Derek again after the confessions they had shared via text, but his fear disappeared as soon as Derek arrived at his house seventeen minutes late (not that Stiles had checked the time on his phone) (several times) and immediately launched into an apology-riddled story about the Head of Department and a Board of Studies meeting and Stiles wasn’t too sure what else. He just focused on the sound of Derek’s voice – calm and pleasant despite his agitation – and felt the knot of nerves in his stomach dissolve.

From behind the living room curtains, Mrs. Hudson waved her knitting-work at them as the car purred to life and smoothed away from the curb. Stiles waved back. He caught Derek looking and explained, “That’s my landlady. Mrs. Hudson.”

“Your landlady is called Mrs. Hudson?” Derek sounded incredulous. “Seriously?”

Stiles ran his fingers along the glistening interior of the Camaro. “Of course not. It’s just what I nicknamed her.”

“You would,” Derek said, grinning at him. He was wearing the leather jacket again, instead of his black trench coat. There was more gel in his hair than usual. Stiles watched Derek work the stick shift and abruptly realized he shouldn’t.

“So, where do you live?” he asked to distract himself from Derek’s long, thick fingers and the way they rested so casually on the leather-bound knob.

“Not too far from you, actually,” Derek said. “Ten minute drive.”

“Yeah, the way you drive,” Stiles muttered, watching the streets blur by in a haze of shadows and colored lights.

Derek arched an eyebrow up at him. “Criticizing my driving style already, are we, Stilinski?”

“My dad is the Sheriff,” Stiles pointed out. “I criticize _everyone’s_ driving style except for his and my own.”

Derek had a house – not just a room or an apartment, but an actual house – in one of the nicer parts of town. It had two stories and a front yard and, by the looks of it, a backyard too. It even had a fucking picket fence.

“Nice place,” Stiles said, trying to keep the awe out of his voice.

Derek chuckled. “You haven’t even been inside yet.” He leaned around Stiles to open the front door. He was very close, suddenly; the scent of hair gel and warm leather and a strong, expensive-smelling aftershave prickled at Stiles’ nostrils. “After you,” Derek said, pushing open the door.

Stiles stepped inside, but a strange shadow down the hallway stopped him dead in his tracks. As soon as he realized what it was, he felt his entire body shut down, muscles locking up one by one until he couldn’t move. His pulse was roaring in his ears. Derek bumped into him from behind, saying, “Whoa.”

“Derek,” Stiles heard himself say. His voice felt like it didn’t belong to him and sounded as if it came from very far away. “Derek, we need to call Animal Control. Now.”

“Why?” Derek said, touching Stiles’ shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a fucking wolf in your house.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you thought Fluffy was a _wolf_ ,” Derek said, shaking his head and chuckling. Again.

Stiles scowled, but he had to smile as well when Fluffy looked up at him excitedly and licked his cheek. He buried his hands deeper in her soft fur. “I refuse to be laughed at for this. It’s _your_ fault. You have a Utonagan. These dogs are bred specifically to _look_ like wolves.”

Derek cracked up again.

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles murmured. “What kind of name is Fluffy anyway?”

“Laura’s kids came up with it. I think they were reading the _Harry Potter_ books at the time.”

“You could’ve told me you had a dog. What if I were allergic? Or scared of them?”

“I _did_ tell you I have a dog. Over sushi, remember? You told me you loved them and used to play with the puppies at the police station even though you weren’t supposed to.” Derek patted Fluffy’s head on his way to the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

Stiles sat back on the couch. “What are you having?”

Derek reappeared with a bottle of white and two glasses.

Wincing, Stiles said, “You do realize I cannot be held responsible for my actions after I have more than two glasses of wine, right?”

“Who says that’s not my ulterior motive?” Derek shot back.

Stiles ducked low behind Fluffy and busied himself with reading the backs of the DVDs in the TV cabinet so Derek wouldn’t be able to see his flushed cheeks. “Hey, you do have _Love Actually_.”

“Yeah, I asked Laura to give it back to me after you and I talked about it.”

Stiles glanced at him from under his eyelashes. He really wasn’t sure at what point he would be allowed to give in to the urge to thread his fingers into Derek’s hair and launch himself at him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to adhere to the barriers Derek had erected so carefully. Had it been up to Stiles, he’d be on his knees right about now.

Derek poured him a rather full glass of wine (“You trying to get me drunk?” “So what if I am?”) and they settled back on the couch to watch the movie. The dog lay at their feet. Derek sat with  his legs spread and the long sleeves of his shirt bunching haphazardly above his elbows. The dimmed light cast shadows across his face. He’d shaved recently, though his stubble had already outgrown the stage at which it could still be considered a five o’clock shadow.

“What?” Derek asked, catching Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles jerked his head away. “Nothing.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Derek duck his head and stifle a laugh. A warm hand settled in the center of Stiles’ lower back. “You’re not very inconspicuous, you know.”

“I know,” Stiles said miserably. He leaned back into the touch. “I can’t help it.”

Derek let out a low, breathy laugh and curved his hand around Stiles’ hip, pulling him closer. Stiles nuzzled into his side and took long sips of wine, Derek’s arm draped casually around his shoulders. From time to time, Derek did something that made his stomach tug with want – like brushing a hand through Stiles’ hair, or draining the remainders of his glass in one swig with his head tilted back, Adam’s apple bobbing – but overall it was a surprisingly laid-back evening. Sure, there was that continuous thrum of uncertainty, of not knowing what he should or shouldn’t do, but it was nice to give Derek the upper hand and await his cues. Sexy, even. It was quite a change from the way Stiles usually did things—eager, rushed, and often without bothering to exchange names or phone numbers.

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice rumbled against his hair, and Stiles must have drifted off for a second because his eyes were dry and heavy when he blinked them open. “I have to go take Fluffy for her evening walk.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured back, but he didn’t move away from Derek’s warm embrace.

“You joining? Or you could stay here and nap for a while if you want.”

Reluctantly, Stiles sat up and rubbed his hands down his face. “No, I want to come.” The dog was already standing next to the couch, beating her tail against Stiles’ shin with an expectant look in her eyes. Stiles playfully caught her muzzle between his hands. She snorted in surprise and pushed her nose into his palm.

“She likes you,” Derek said. “That’s good. She usually doesn’t warm to new people all that easily.”

“What can I say, I’m a likeable guy.”

Derek pushed his head lightly. “What do they call that again in your line of work? Delusions of grandeur?”

“Self-knowledge,” Stiles told him.

The world outside was covered with a thick blanket of snow. Fluffy darted happily into the whitened street. Stiles followed her and almost slipped, but Derek caught him.

“God, I hate winter,” Stiles grumbled.

Derek’s gloved hand slid down from where it was clenched around his upper arm to the inside of his wrist. “Careful,” he said, entwining his fingers with Stiles’.

They walked hand in hand, mostly in silence. It was nice. Really nice. Which was exactly what Stiles told Derek when they arrived back at his front door. “So, I had a really nice evening.”

“Yeah?” Derek asked with a little smile, letting Fluffy into the house and stepping into the corridor.

“Yeah.” Stiles stayed outside, pushed his hands into his pockets. It had begun to snow again; the walk home would be long and cold. “So, I should probably get going.”

Derek was already shrugging out of his coat. “I don’t really feel like driving.”

Stiles blinked up at him. A snowflake got caught in his eyelashes. “Uh, okay? I wasn’t expecting you to—”

“No, I mean—” Derek paused. “I mean, that wasn’t very— I was thinking, you could stay?”

“Um,” Stiles said, again. “What, like, the night?”

“Yes. Like, the night.”

Stiles tried and failed not to think about all the things he’d want to do to Derek once they were together in bed, in the dark. His mind reeled. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it, but do you really think that would be a good idea?” he said. “You know, what with the whole taking things slow thing?”

Derek smirked. “We’ll just have to restrain ourselves. I’ve got handcuffs.”

 _Oh my God_. Stiles swallowed. “Yeah, okay, if you really want to take things slow, that— that’s not a good idea at all.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Derek said, reaching for Stiles’ hand and pulling him into the house.

 

* * *

 

Stiles behaved all throughout feeding the dog, turning off the lights, brushing their teeth; he even made sure to undress in a hurry while Derek was in the bathroom and to fiddle busily with his phone as Derek changed into flannel pajama pants with a purple-and-pink checkered print (which, maddeningly enough, did not make him look any less attractive). But when Derek slid under the covers next to him and they lay on their sides facing each other, less than a few inches of distance between their faces, well. That was when he decided he’d behaved for long enough.

“Can we fucking finally kiss now?” he said. “Because if not, I swear to God I’ll—”

With an amused noise, Derek hooked his fingers around Stiles’ jaw and pulled him closer. Stiles surged forward, their teeth clacking together. Derek chuckled into his mouth.

“Shut up,” Stiles murmured, rolling on top of him. “Shut up.” He clasped Derek’s head between both his hands. Derek’s lips were soft, his tongue strong but pliant; he seemed content to give Stiles the upper hand and just wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist to hold him in place as they kissed. After their mouths had established a comfortable rhythm, Stiles found he didn’t know what to do with his own hands. He wanted to brush his fingers through Derek’s stubble, to fist his hands in his hair, to feel his jawline, to—

Stiles broke away from the kiss. “Oh my God,” he groaned, pressing their foreheads together. “I don’t even know where to start touching you.”

Derek threw his head back into the pillow as he laughed, which provided Stiles with the perfect opportunity to catch his lower lip between his teeth and bite down a little. Derek made a moan-like noise in his throat, hand coming up to the back of Stiles’ neck. “Might need those handcuffs soon,” he said as Stiles mouthed at his jaw.

Stiles lifted his head. “Too fast?”

“No.” Derek’s mouth was glistening. “No, this is good.”

“Good,” Stiles echoed, nosing at Derek’s stubble. Derek’s hands moved to his lower back, warm and heavy, thumbs pressing against either side of his spine. Derek turned his head, licked a wet stripe across Stiles’ bottom lip, and breathed lightly against it. Stiles shuddered, their lower bodies grinding together. He could feel the bulge of Derek’s erection, was achingly hard himself, but decided not to try anything below the waist just yet in favor of continuing to make out. He let his hands wander into Derek’s hair, which felt just as luscious as it looked. When he took a few strands between his fingers and tugged experimentally, Derek moaned and arched upward.

“Handcuffs,” Derek warned breathily, hands sliding down to Stiles’ ass. “I mean it.”

“Yes Professor,” Stiles murmured back. He mouthed at Derek’s jawline for a bit and then moved to his Adam’s apple. Derek’s grip on his ass tightened; the hum he let out vibrated against Stiles’ mouth. Stiles continued to nip and suck at Derek’s throat while Derek’s hands wandered up, all across his torso as if mapping out his skin. He rubbed at Stiles’ nipples with the rough, callused pads of his thumbs until Stiles gasped loudly into the room.

“You feel so fucking beautiful,” Derek told him in a low voice, and Stiles had heard many different phrasings of that sentence many times before, but something about the way Derek said it made him believe it. He shivered and hastily pressed their lips together again, in a slower kiss this time.

After a while, Stiles pushed into an upright position so he was straddling Derek’s thighs. Derek blinked up at him from where he lay lazily in the heap of blankets and pillows. Stiles ran his hand through Derek’s tousled hair again and then traced Derek’s jawline, his neck. Derek murmured something but didn’t move.

“How the fuck are you so muscled?” Stiles said, sweeping his palms down Derek’s chiseled chest.

Derek’s teeth glistened in the dark as he laughed. “Um… I work out?”

“Jesus Christ.” Stiles touched every ridge of Derek’s eight-pack and followed the slanted lines that accentuated Derek’s hipbones with his fingers. He wanted nothing more than to follow their path into Derek’s tented pajama pants, but this was probably not the time and place. Or, well, definitely the place – what better place than Derek’s king-size bed? Sure beat Stiles’ much smaller bed in Mrs. Hudson’s house – but not really the time. Because Derek wanted to take things slow.

“Your bed is really comfortable,” Stiles said, letting himself slide off Derek and fall in a somewhat graceless heap at his side. He bounced on the mattress a little. “Definitely worth coming back for.”

“Yeah?” Derek asked, leaning in. Their tongues met again, not in a heated way but languidly, like red wine on a Sunday afternoon. It was the sort of kiss you never wanted to end, and that was an ice-cold realization Stiles felt all the way into his stomach. He jerked away.

Derek was frowning sleepily. “You all right?”

Stiles looked at him, at his scrunched-up eyes and his lips swollen red and his stupidly good-looking stubble and his perfect fucking jawline. “Yeah,” he said, thumbing at the crease between Derek’s eyebrows until it disappeared. “I was just thinking I kind of want to make out with you forever.” _  
_

Derek caught Stiles’ wrist and pressed his lips to the pulse point. “Works for me,” he said, just like that - easily, no hesitation, not a flicker of panic in his eyes - and kissed Stiles until Stiles felt himself relax.

“You good?” Derek asked. His breath was cold against Stiles’ slick lips.

“Yeah. Better than good.” He chased after Derek’s mouth, but Derek instead started a path of kisses down Stiles’ throat, sinking his teeth into the hollow at its base. Stiles wound his fingers into Derek’s hair to keep him there.

“Still good?” Derek murmured, shifting them so that he was on top of Stiles, his strong thighs on either side of Stiles’ hips. Their dicks touched, and a spark of anticipatory heat traveled up Stiles’ spine.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, voice a little hoarse.

Derek came back up. He took the lead this time, dominating the kiss with hungry, insistent laps of his tongue. His free hand settled on one of his nipples again, rubbing until Stiles bucked up his hips, unable to take it any longer. Derek’s hand roamed down his torso. “Still good?”

Stiles nodded and lifted his hips wordlessly as Derek’s hand finally, _finally_ , dipped into the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants and pushed them down, warm hand wrapping around Stiles’ dick and feeling it up before giving it a few strokes. “Good?”

“ _So_ good,” Stiles panted, although at this point – after having been hard for what felt like such a long time – anything would have felt good, probably. Derek smirked against his mouth and let go of him.

“Derek—”

“God,” Derek chuckled, pushing down his own pajama pants with his free hand. The muscles in his neck were standing out against his skin, strained tight from holding him up on one arm. “You’re so impatient.”

“Fuck—” Stiles said with the intention to say _fuck you_ , but when Derek’s dick touched his without the interference of clothing and Derek’s rough-skinned hand closed tight around them both, the _you_ dropped away. He felt his cheeks flush at the neediness in his own voice.

Derek was loud as he jerked them off together; his breath came hard and fast and he kept murmuring little words and phrases like, “Yeah,” and “You look so good,” and “Fuck,” and “Stiles—” He was still propping himself up on his forearm; their heads were so close that their noses bumped against each other on more than one occasion as they moved together.

The controlled, purposeful movements of Derek’s hand made Stiles want to let his eyes slide shut, but that would be a waste of the view – Derek’s face above his, eyes hazed over with bliss, hair falling into his eyes, lips parted as they whispered Stiles’ name over and over again. Stiles reached out with both hands and pulled Derek down. They both continued to grind into Derek’s touch, so the kiss was sloppy and wet, Derek’s stubble scraping agonizingly across Stiles’ entire mouth area. Stiles didn’t even try to keep in the moans.

“Fuck,” Derek murmured, burying his head in the crook of Stiles’ neck. “Fuck—” His thrusts turned uncoordinated and Stiles felt the bursts of come against his lower abdomen. Derek kept going, stroking Stiles faster and faster until he arched upward and came too, still holding Derek’s head between his hands. Derek didn’t move away; he carelessly wiped his hand on the sheets and kind of snuggled into Stiles, arm slipping under the pillow. Stiles could feel their come dry on his stomach as he tried to catch his breath, which was difficult.

“Derek,” he said, poking him in the side. “You’re sort of heavy.”

Derek caught his hand, threaded their fingers together. His touch was sticky.

“Gross,” Stiles said.

Sleepily, Derek kissed the corner of his mouth and murmured, “Shut up.”

Stiles obeyed.

 

* * *

 

He woke up to an empty bed and the smell of bacon and coffee.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles muttered, actually digging his nails into the pale belly of his wrist for a second. It hurt. Not a dream. “Oh man.”

The sound of nails ticking on wood was followed by Fluffy’s head appearing from behind Derek’s side of the bed – fuck, no, from behind Derek’s _bed_ , as both sides were his, as this entire bed was Derek’s. Stiles rolled to the edge of the mattress so he could pet her.

“Is this a joke?” he asked the dog. “Does he honestly expect me to believe he’s perfect? Because I don’t, I mean, statistically speaking, there must be _something_ wrong with him. We’re all fucked up in some way. I refuse to believe he is this perfect, okay. You can tell me. Does he run a meth lab? Is he some sort of supernatural creature? Or maybe he’s Dexter in his spare time? Where’s the catch?”

Fluffy licked his hand and let out a happy little noise. Stiles sighed and rolled out of bed, following the heavenly smell of bacon and coffee down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Who do I have to screw around here to get some breakfast and a towel?” he asked at the exact same moment as he realized that Derek had a fucking tattoo on his back, which could have explained the embarrassing little squeak his voice made at the end of the sentence.

“That would be me,” Derek said, unperturbed, as he flicked a stack of bacon onto a plate. “Orange juice?”

And maybe, just maybe, Stiles could get used to this.

 

* * *

 

Scott called again on Thursday.

Stiles had picked up fully assuming it to be Derek; earlier, he’d received a text confessing **I can’t stop thinking about you** which had made his heart rate pick up and caused him to miss out on whatever the undergrad in front of him had been saying. He completely wasn’t expecting Scott’s happy voice to call, “Hey, man! How are you? I haven’t heard from you in ages!”

“Scott,” Stiles said weakly. “I’m good, but I’m kind of in the middle of open office hours, so I might have to—”

“Why haven’t you responded to your dad’s email yet? He’s called me like three times this week already.”

“What email?”

“He sent you an email about Christmas! When are you arriving?”

Stiles threw a glance at his office door, which was ajar. “Listen, Scott, I’m supposed to be available—”

“You still haven’t booked, have you?”

Stiles suppressed the urge to sigh. “No. I haven’t.”

“Don’t you want to come?” Scott sounded a little like a kicked puppy now. Damnit. Well done, Stiles.

“It’s not like I don’t _want_ to come,” he lied. “It’s just that I’m really busy at the moment, and it’s really nice up here this time of the year…”

“Stiles, you hate cold! And snow!”

“Well…” He paused, letting his gaze flit about the office. He caught sight of yesterday’s Starbucks cup in the bin by the door. “Okay, I’ve kind of— I’ve met someone, I guess.”

“Met someone as in—”

“As in _met someone_ , yeah.”

“Like…” Scott was distracted from the topic of Christmas now, thank the Lord. “Like, as in, dating someone?”

“I guess,” Stiles said. Was he dating Derek? They often had coffee together, they’d touched each other’s dicks, and they’d met outside of work a few times on what people might consider dates. “We’ve, yeah, we’ve been on dates, I guess.”

“But, like, not just sex, then? Like…”

“Nope. We haven’t even fucked yet. We’re taking things slooow.”

“Oh man,” Scott said. “Dude, that’s seriously awesome. I’m happy for you. What does he look like?”

“Uh,” Stiles said. “Do you remember Derek Hale?”

He could practically hear the cogs turn in Scott’s brain. “Hale as in the Hales here in Beacon Hills? The Hales host those awesome New Year bonfires?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t remember him, but wait, let me check Facebook.” He was quiet for a while. “No. Good-looking, though.”

“Dude, you should see his dick.”

Scott laughed heartily. “Allison approves, too.”

“Say hi from me.”

“She says hi back. And… what?” Scott was silent again. “Oh, right! Christmas!”

Stiles pulled a face. “Scott. I forgot to get a plane ticket, all right, and now it’s way too expensive for me to come. I’m sorry.”

“If you told your dad that, he’d pay it for you,” Scott pointed out. “You know he would. Why aren’t you talking to him? You two used to be so close. Did you have a fight the last time you were here?”

“No. We’re fine. I’ve just been busy.”

“Too busy to send one email?”

“Dude, you—”

“It’s about her, isn’t it?” Scott asked softly.

Stiles bit down on the thumb of his free hand, but he didn’t say anything. Scott had been his best friend for as long as he could remember; he knew exactly what Stiles’ voice sounded like when he was telling a lie.

“She’s really nice, you know,” Scott said. “She actually came over to give me and Allison a card and flowers for our second anniversary. On the right date and everything.”

“I never said she wasn’t nice,” Stiles says reflexively.

“So then what’s the—”

“I really don’t feel like talking about this right now!” Stiles burst out. “Okay, Scott? Can we shut up about how fucking _nice_ she is and about how she brings you fucking flowers for your anniversary? Because I seriously can’t think of anything I’d be even _less_ happy to talk about, and that includes your precious fucking Christmas.” His heart was pounding, he realized, red dots of anger dancing around in his vision, and his head felt like it was about to explode. Almost involuntarily, he patted around for his cigarettes and got up from his chair.

He was expecting Scott to either tear him a new one or to just hang up on him, but it was worse. Neither of them spoke; they kept breathing down the line until Stiles was outside and lighting his cigarette. Then, Scott said quietly, “You used to love Christmas,” and hung up.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles said, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Punching the brick wall would, probably, but he was the resident student psychologist, for fuck’s sake. He was supposed to at least pretend to have his life together. He wandered around the campus until his cigarette was down to the filter and lit a new one. By the time he was finished with the third, he was standing in front of Derek’s building.

Stiles had never been to Derek’s office before, but he knew more or less where it was, and it wasn’t hard to find. Derek shared an office with Dr. Deaton, who fortunately wasn’t around when Stiles slid through the door and locked it behind him.

Derek was sitting at the desk closest to the door with a look of intense concentration on his face and a stack of papers next to his elbow. His hair was epically messed up, meaning he had been running his hands through it, meaning he was either very focused or very frustrated. Judging by the amount of time that passed before Derek even looked up, Stiles guessed it was the former.

“Hey,” Derek said when their eyes met almost by accident. He sounded surprised, happily surprised, and the way his eyes lit up behind his glasses tugged at Stiles’ stomach like a fish hook. Stiles all but launched himself into Derek’s lap to kiss him.

After a perplexed second of hesitation, Derek started kissing him back enthusiastically, one of his hands curled into Stiles’ shirt collar and the other coming up to cup his cheek. Stiles gratefully pressed closer and tugged at Derek’s hair, earning himself a deep-chested rumble. The physical contact felt good, but it wasn’t _enough_ , and his skin was itching with the need for more. He started to undo Derek’s belt buckle with one hand.

Derek broke away from the kiss only when Stiles had already worked one hand down his boxers and was fondling his half-hard dick. “What—” he said, glancing up. His glasses were slightly askew.

“Just sit back and enjoy it,” Stiles told him. “And don’t be too loud.” He slid down the chair to his knees and took Derek’s dick out of his pants, swallowing it down. It had been a while since the last time he’d done this – he couldn’t remember when or with whom – and the heady, salty taste made him moan, causing Derek to draw in a sharp breath. Stiles hummed in response and came up for air, then pushed Derek’s legs further apart and swallowed him down again. When he felt the head hit the back of his throat, he pulled back quickly to suck on the tip and tease the underside with his fingers.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek said roughly, fingertips scrambling against the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles reached for the hand and pushed it flat against his cheek so Derek could feel his own dick move inside Stiles’ mouth.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek said again. His other hand fisted into Stiles’ hair and jerked, making Stiles to moan until— “Stiles, stop.”

Stiles’ heart sank through his diaphragm and shattered on the floor of his stomach. He felt sick all of a sudden. Aided by Derek’s insistent hand in his hair, he pulled off quickly and sat back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Not good?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded. He cleared his throat.

“What— no, Stiles, that’s not what I meant at all,” Derek said, tucking himself back in hastily. “No, I— come up here, Jesus.”

Stiles got back to his feet. His knees felt a little unsteady, so he leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms. Once Derek was done buttoning his fly, he reached out and touched Stiles’ knee. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“What, aside from me apparently trying to assault you in your office?” Stiles let out a humorless laugh. “I should—” But before he could even take one step, Derek was out of his chair and blocking Stiles’ way to the door with two hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t say that,” Derek said. “I’m not saying I don’t want this. Of course I want this”

“Then why—”

“You’re upset.” Derek frowned.

Stiles scoffed. “Obviously, I—”

“No. Before, I mean. You were upset when you came in here. I could see it. I just didn’t— what’s wrong?”

Stiles stared at him. The glasses made Derek’s eyes look bigger, their indecipherable color even brighter. “I’m not—”

“Stiles.”

There was a knock on the door, but they ignored it. Even when a voice called, “Professor Hale?” Derek didn’t do anything but continue to look at Stiles until Stiles turned his head away and said, “It’s nothing, I just— I got a call from Scott and he said some things and it made me want to not go home for Christmas even more and I yelled at him and I just wanted to see you, all right, that’s all. That’s it. I’ll go now.”

“No!” Derek said. His eyes softened. “Unless you want to.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Stiles said stupidly. “Jesus Christ.” His throat felt thick. He didn’t know whether to pry Derek’s hands off him or to lean into his arms, so he didn’t do either.

“Is it about your dad’s wife?” Derek tried.

“I don't fucking _want to _—” Stiles closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He’d already fought with Scott; it would be dumb to pull the same trick on Derek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I need a cigarette.”__

Derek let go of his shoulders, but instead of stepping out of the way he reached for Stiles’ face. Stiles let him in without thinking twice, fisting his hands into Derek’s shirt to pull him closer, and now they were back in familiar territory. Derek’s thumb rubbed his cheekbone softly, back and forth, back and forth like a soothing mantra. Stiles turned his head away from the kiss and pressed their cheeks together, focusing on the feeling. Slowly but steadily, the tension between his shoulder blades started to melt away.

“It’s not like she’s a bitch, or anything,” he said eventually, more to himself than to Derek. “It’s not like she’s ever been anything less than civil to me. But I can’t stand how much everyone loves her, and how everyone seems able to move on from everything. Everyone except me. Despite all my stupid knowledge of how the mind works and how people work and— despite everything, everyone ends up happily paired off in Beacon fucking Hills and here I am in some random town, on my own.”

It all sounded impossibly childish to his own ears, but Derek kissed his cheek and said, “Not on your own,” and that was cheesy, sure, but apparently it was exactly what Stiles needed to hear, because he felt his body relax and their next kiss was sloppy and relaxed, not as fraught as before.

“You good?” Derek murmured against his mouth, kneading Stiles’ lower back under his shirt with warm, broad hands.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, and added, “Can I blow you now?”

Derek snorted. His hands slid lower.

 

* * *

 

Derek: **Taylor Swift’s music is my guilty pleasure.**

Stiles: **Sometimes** **I stay home just to watch Cesar Millan.**

 

* * *

 

Stiles: **I understand Latin and ancient Greek.**

Derek: **I fainted in front of a full lecture hall once. Very embarrassing.**

 

* * *

 

Derek: **Come over this weekend?**

Stiles: **Well, if you insist…**

 

* * *

 

Derek was in sweatpants when Stiles arrived at his house late on Friday evening, his glasses askew and his hair wilder than Stiles had ever seen it.

“Hey,” he said distractedly as he pulled Stiles in for a quick kiss. “Hey, I’m just finishing this thing— it’s almost done, is it okay if I…”

“Sure,” Stiles told him, blowing on his frozen fingertips to warm them up. “I’ll keep myself busy.”

“It’s this stupid publication, I just can’t seem to get the conclusion right, God, I _hate_ writing conclusions, it’s like, you literally just read the entire paper, why should I have to present all my findings to you _again_ …” Derek trailed off as he padded barefoot into the living room. He sat down at the kitchen table, which was littered with papers and pens and USB sticks and dirty plates and three empty bottles of wine (“Not all from today,” Derek hastened to say when Stiles’ gaze fell on them).

Stiles settled down on the couch. Fluffy came up to him with her tail raised and her tongue lolling out of her mouth. He lowered his hands for her to sniff. She gave a short, cheerful bark of approval and launched herself onto the couch next to Stiles.

“Fluffy,” Derek said in a warning voice. “No barking.”

Fluffy’s ears slinked down. Stiles gave one of them a soft tug and let his bag drop to the floor. The television was on, though muted. “Hey, is it okay if I turn on the sound?”

Derek blinked at him. He looked a little perplexed, almost as though Stiles had suddenly appeared in his living room and he, Derek, had no idea how he’d gotten there. It was oddly adorable. “No, noise is fine,” he said eventually. “Talk to me, how was your day?”

With his arms crossed behind his head, Stiles launched into a boring account of his boring day. Derek nodded in all the right places and even managed to form a semi-relevant question from time to time. It was intriguing, seeing him like this, in full scholar mode. Stiles tried to watch the re-run of _America’s Next Top Model_ but kept getting distracted by the tight, focused set of Derek’s jaw and his inaudible murmurs to himself. He startled when Derek suddenly said, loudly, “Done,” and slammed his laptop shut. “God, I’m glad that’s done. Glass of wine?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, stretching out to make his shoulders pop. He hung back lazily and watched adverts until Derek returned with two glasses of white wine and a bag of Doritos. “Bullshitting gets me hungry,” Derek said by way of explanation.

“You must be hungry all the time then,” Stiles said, reaching for the bag.

Derek pretended to slap his hand away. “Be nice or I’m throwing you out.”

“You wouldn’t. I’m way too good in bed.”

“Don’t set the expectations too high.” Derek sent the dog off the couch and sat down himself. Even in sweatpants and a simple long-sleeved shirt, he looked stupidly hot. “What?” Derek asked when he noticed Stiles looking at him.

Stiles shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me. You had this look in your eyes.” Derek shifted closer, putting one arm on the back of the couch. His fingers grazed warmly against the skin of Stiles’ neck.

“You’re bossy today,” Stiles said. “What kind of look?”

“Like you were about to kiss me,” Derek said, breath ghosting across Stiles’ lips. His hand was resting in Stiles’ nape now, thumb stroking the hair at the back of his neck.

Stiles stayed very still. “Kudos for figuring that one out, Professor Hale. I bow to your genius.”

“You’re sarcastic today.”

“I’m sarcastic every day.”

Derek didn’t reply. He reached for Stiles’ face carefully with his other hand. Stiles thought Derek was going to kiss him, relaxed his jaw in anticipation, but Derek seemed to get distracted by something. He traced Stiles’ cheek with his fingertips as though following a pattern.

“What are you doing?” Stiles said quietly.

“Counting your moles.”

Stiles pulled a face. “I hate that word.”

“What, moles?”

He nodded.

“Well, I like them.” Derek started pressing his lips to them one by one, but Stiles, who had never claimed to be a particularly patient person, turned his head after the third kiss and connected their mouths instead. He hadn’t gotten tired of making out with Derek yet. It was nice, never boring; sometimes it was heated and sloppy, sometimes – like now – it was gentler, quieter. Derek, Stiles had discovered, had this tendency to devolve a kiss into a slow and open-mouthed one with just a hint of tongue, instead of making it more and more heated the way most people tended to. Stiles liked that. It took the urgency away, made it feel like Derek would be content just to sit here and make out with Stiles all evening, not doing anything else.

“You taste of cigarettes,” Derek murmured, pulling Stiles into his lap.

Stiles tilted his head back and resisted the urge to grind down as Derek’s stubble rasped across his throat. “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice a little strained.

“No, it’s kind of sexy.”

He felt the sting of teeth as they sunk into his skin, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to make Stiles hum and rock down a little, just a little. Derek laughed lowly and thrust up his hips in response, warm hands sliding under Stiles’ button-down and into the back of his boxers. Stiles could feel his phone buzz, but he ignored it in favor of pushing his thumb against the corner of Derek’s mouth and pressing down until it opened up for his tongue. His phone buzzed again.

“Jesus.” Stiles wrestled the damn thing out of his pocket with the intention of throwing it to the other corner of the couch, but changed his mind when he caught sight of the screen. “Hold on,” he said, straightening up a little. “It’s my dad— he never texts me.”

“Check it,” Derek said. His mouth shone red and his hair was a mess. He looked utterly beautiful.

 **Spoke to Scott. Bought you a plane ticket. Emailed the details** , the first text said. The second said, **I miss you, Stiles. Don’t be a stranger**. Stiles swallowed a few times, but the lump in his throat refused to go away.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked.

Stiles shrugged and flung his phone away. “Nothing.” He leaned forward, but Derek tilted his head back. Sighing, Stiles buried his fingertips in Derek’s stubble. “He bought me a plane ticket for the Christmas break.”

“That’s good, right?”

With another shrug, Stiles slid his fingers down along Derek’s jawline to his ear. “It’ll be good to see _him_ , and Scott and Allison.” He rubbed Derek’s earlobe between index finger and thumb. Derek made a low, rumbling sound and pressed their cheeks together. “Less good to sit at the table and have his new wife”—he didn’t think he would ever be able to refer to her as just his dad’s wife, no matter how many years it’d been—“silently judge me for two consecutive evenings, though.”

“Judging you how? Why?”

Stiles rested his hand on the curve where Derek’s neck and shoulder met. “My lifestyle, I guess,” he said. “She doesn’t really approve of it.”

The muscles under his palm tensed at that. “She a homophobe?”

Stiles shook his head. “No. I mean, she’s a little... traditional, but no. I’m just too much for her to handle. I’m pretty sure she would’ve preferred it if Scott had been my dad’s kid. He’s the perfect stepson, all polite and floppy-haired and happily married to this gorgeous girl.” God, he missed Scott. More than he allowed himself to admit on a daily basis. “But instead, she got saddled with me.”

“I like being saddled with you,” Derek said, squeezing his side.

Stiles cast him a smile, but he could feel that it didn’t reach his eyes. Derek studied his face for a few seconds and then said, “Kate is the reason I left my position at Harvard.”

Stiles could stop his mouth from falling open, but not his eyebrows from rising to his hairline. “Your position at _Har_ …” He trailed off. Of course Derek had taught at Harvard. Hell, they’d probably offered him full tenure. He was not only intelligent, but gorgeous too. It’s a well-documented psychological phenomenon: beautiful people automatically get favored in virtually all aspects of life.

“You didn’t know that?” Derek looked amused. “You really weren’t lying when you said you haven’t googled me, were you?”

“Cyberstalking people is not my style,” Stiles said. “Unlike some people. Was Kate the psycho ex?”

Derek nodded. “She got locked up, of course, but I didn’t want to stay there after everything that had happened. Not just the fire. She strung me along pretty bad. For a very long time. Everywhere I turned, every building, every street corner reminded me of her. So I decided a clean slate would be nice.”

“I like clean slates,” Stiles said. His mouth felt dry. He glanced over his shoulder, but the wine glasses on the coffee table didn’t look very appetizing at the moment.

Derek caught him looking and said, “Not really a wine kind of moment, is it?”

“Not really, no,” Stiles said.

“Starbucks drive-thru?”

Stiles contemplated it. “I could go for a Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

“You can _always_ go for a Pumpkin Spice Latte,” Derek said, and pulled him in for one of those slow, open-mouthed kisses.

 

* * *

 

Despite the caffeine, Stiles all felt rosy-cheeked and sleepy when they pulled up in front of the house again. He slumped in his seat and pulled his best adorable face. “Will you carry me?”

“No way,” Derek said. “I’m sure you can brave those few steps yourself. Come on, I have faith in you.”

“It’s not a _few_ steps,” Stiles protested. “It’s, like, at least a hundred steps from here to your bed.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at him. “You are grossly overestimating the distance. Drama queen.”

“Am not.” Stiles ran his hand along the neat line of stitching on his leather seat. “Hey, have you ever had sex in this car?”

“Not yet,” Derek said, leaning across the gear shift. “Why, you offering?”

“I _would_ be, if it wasn’t for the ‘taking things slow’ rule.”

Derek’s eyes flickered down to Stiles’ lips and up to his eyes again. “Screw that rule,” he said.

Stiles’ heart rate accelerated. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, pressing their lips together for the so-manieth time this evening. He tasted of sugar and warm milk. “We’ve been taking things slow for long enough. God, I want you.” Stiles’ hands fisted into Derek’s leather jacket of their own accord. “Not here, though,” Derek murmured. “I want you in my bed.”

“I want you _anywhere_ ,” Stiles said, taking advantage of Derek’s chuckle to lick into his mouth.

They went through the whole cliched movie sex scene routine, discarding various pieces of clothing on their way to the bedroom. Somewhere in-between corridor and staircase, Stiles managed to lose his shoes and shirt and jeans in a blur of grabby hands and demanding tongues and low, desperate noises. He was so focused on the thought of what was finally about to happen that he was barely aware of anything else until Derek pushed him back on the bed and straddled his thighs, slithering up to meet his mouth in a fluid, agonizingly sexy movement.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles muttered, hands scrambling against Derek’s naked back. A full-body shiver overtook him.

Derek grinned at him and said, “Yoga,” before leaning down to suck a mark into Stiles’ neck. Stiles arched his head back, threading his hands into Derek’s hair and pulling. Derek moaned deeply and grinded their lower bodies together.

“Take these off, Jesus,” Stiles panted, pushing Derek’s sweatpants down the curve of his ass as much as he could. Derek laughed quietly, the burst of breath cold against Stiles’ damp skin, and kicked them off all the way before helping Stiles out of his boxers. Their dicks brushed against each other, and they reached down at the same moment, fumbled for control. Stiles ended up with his hand around their dicks, Derek’s hand closing around his to make his grip even tighter.

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” Stiles said. Derek swallowed down the word hungrily, biting down on his bottom lip for an excruciating second. “Talk,” he ordered.

“About what?” Stiles rubbed the tip of Derek’s dick with his thumb. Derek choked back a noise and buried his head in the curve of Stiles’ neck, thrusting into their combined grip. “About how badly I’ve been wanting your dick inside of me ever since you spilled that goddamn cup of coffee on me?”

“Your fault,” Derek grunted. Stiles increased the pace of his strokes, felt the scrape of teeth along his collarbone. “You just appeared… out of nowhere…”

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Stiles said, sliding his free hand into Derek’s hair to jerk his head upward for a wet, uncoordinated kiss. “But that doesn’t matter now. When you got down on your knees I seriously wanted to believe you were going to suck me off. God, _I_ wanted to suck _you_ off, right there, where anyone could’ve walked in and seen me on my knees for you. You fucking my mouth.” Derek shuddered against him, his grip tightening until it became almost unbearable. Stiles let out a choked-off moan. “Whoa, I had no idea you’d be this into dirty talk.”

“I like listening to your voice,” Derek said quietly, rubbing their cheeks together.

“Oh my fucking God.” Stiles jerked his head away when Derek’s stubble began to burn. His skin felt like it was on fire – not just his face; everywhere Derek and he were touching. “You need to go get a fucking condom, like, yesterday.”

Derek gave them one last squeeze and rolled off the mattress, reaching for the low cabinet next to the door and rummaging around in one of the drawers. It wasn’t until he hit the light switch that Stiles realized how dark it had been in the room. He let his eyes roam across Derek’s now well-lit figure; his chiseled back, his tanned skin, the muscled curve of his ass. Fuck. Stiles wrapped his hand around his abandoned dick and started stroking it. “Can you find one?”

“Yeah.” Derek turned away from the cabinet with a tube of lube and a strip of condoms in his hands. His gaze dropped to where Stiles was slowly jerking himself off. He swallowed audibly.

“Come back here,” Stiles murmured, making a point of arching his spine back as he touched himself. He shivered, genuinely, when he saw Derek’s throat working. “I want you to touch me.”

“You have no idea how hot you are like this,” Derek said. He knelt on the bed next to Stiles and stayed there for a moment, just watching. His dick was still almost fully hard, the head glistening with pre-come. Stiles wanted to lick it all off. “Are you going to finger yourself for me, too?”

Jesus fucking _Christ_. “Shut up and come back here,” Stiles commanded, reaching for Derek’s wrist with his free hand. “You’re gonna make me come way too fast if you keep talking like that.”

Derek smiled. “Fine,” he said, leaning down to press a hasty kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I’ll do it myself.” Stiles watched as Derek sat back on his heels and squirted a dollop of lube into his palm. He lifted his hips obediently, dick twitching against his abdomen at the first cold, wet probe of fingers.

“Come here,” Stiles said again, rocking down onto Derek’s hand. “Kiss me.”

Derek obeyed. Stiles moved his lips against Derek’s a little absent-mindedly, too busy concentrating on relaxing while simultaneously trying not to come from the friction of Derek’s lower body against the underside of his dick and the feeling of two thick fingers curling into him, pressing, searching. He lifted one knee, foot flat against the mattress, and felt a fingertip slide in place against his prostate, pleasure sparking hotly in every cell of his body. “Fuck,” he said hoarsely. “Fuck, Derek, I want to feel your dick in me.”

Derek murmured, “Patience,” and thrust his fingers in deeper, adding another. He touched Stiles’ hair with his free hand and kissed him, more thoroughly this time. The initial franticness of the moment, it seemed, had passed. As Stiles came down from his high a little, he realized he was fisting his hands into the bed sheets. He uncurled his fingers and grabbed the strip of condoms, tearing one off. “Would you like me to do the honors, Professor Hale?”

Derek sat back on his heels and watched intently as Stiles rolled the condom onto his hard, flushed dick. “You are unbelievable,” he told Stiles in a low voice.

“In a good way or a bad way?” Stiles asked, spreading his legs wider.

“The best.” Derek leaned down for another quick kiss, guiding his dick with one hand. Stiles hooked his calves around Derek’s lower back and hummed as he felt the head settle against his entrance. “Fucking finally.”

Derek pushed inside agonizingly slowly. “Stiles,” he said, pressing their foreheads together, “you know I don’t… I don’t do this with just about anyone.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, after a second’s hesitation. “I figured.” He closed his eyes at the slow, deep burn of Derek’s dick filling him up. “I can’t believe you made me wait so long for this.”

“Believe me, me neither,” Derek murmured. “You good?”

Stiles rarely had sex face-to-face. He preferred to fuck people doggy style, or riding their dick while they lay back. This position had always seemed too intense to him, too intimate, and he’d never really enjoyed it before. With Derek, though, it was kind of fantastic; he could see every twitch of muscle, every miniscule change to Derek’s blown-out pupils, the tiny drops of sweat on his upper lip. Curving his hand around the back of Derek’s head to keep him close, Stiles whispered, “Fuck me, please.”

“Jesus,” Derek grunted, pulling out almost all the way and thrusting back in.

“God, you’re so-- you feel so good. You have no idea what you do to me.”

 _You have no idea what_ you _do to_ me, Stiles thought, allowing his eyes to slide shut as Derek fucked him and burying his fingernails in the tanned skin of Derek’s shoulders. When he managed to glance through his eyelashes, Derek was looking at his face hungrily.

“What,” Stiles choked out, head tipping back as Derek hit his prostate.

“You’re so beautiful,” Derek said. Their mouths collided, but neither of them had the required amount of mental or physical strength left to turn it into an actual kiss; they gasped into each other’s open mouths until Derek’s thrusts turned shallower. He arched his back as he climaxed, breathing “ _Stiles_ ,” into Stiles’ mouth. Derek continued to fuck into Stiles leisurely, palming the head of his dick until Stiles came too, entire body convulsing with the intensity of his orgasm.

Derek continued to stroke his dick until the stimulation became too much. “Stop, _Derek_ , enough, too much—” Stiles gasped. Derek made a low, amused noise and pulled out of him, tying off the condom and, uncharacteristically carelessly, dropping it next to the bed.

“Gross,” Stiles said, pulling a face. A drop of sweat slid down his temple; he brushed it away.

Derek raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one who made a mess,” he said, dragging his index finger through the come on Stiles’ abdomen.

“Oh my God,” Stiles said, catching the hand and bringing it up to his mouth to touch his lips to the back of it. “Stop talking dirty to me. You’re like a filthy sex god camouflaging yourself with cute cardigans and nerdy glasses.”

“Just wait until I take you from behind,” Derek said calmly. “Or ride you. In my car.”

Stiles groaned. “The thought of that is making me hard again already.”

“Yeah?” Derek asked, fingers curling around Stiles’ soft dick.

“Okay, give me a few minutes,” Stiles said. “Come here, kiss me.”

“So bossy,” Derek said, but he did. They lay side by side, making out for a while. Derek pulled up a few blankets to their shoulders when it started to feel colder in the room. Stiles’ heartbeat slowly returned to a normal pace. He used Derek’s boxers from beside the bed to wipe off his stomach.

“Gross,” Derek said. Stiles pulled a face at him.

“You’re the one who just dropped a condom next to the--” His words got cut off when Derek rolled on top of him and connected their mouths, one broad hand on either side of Stiles’ face. Stiles dug his nails into the backs of Derek’s thighs and tugged him closer.

 

* * *

 

He woke up with one of Derek’s arms slung heavily around his waist from behind. Derek was fast asleep; his chest rumbled with every intake of air, the exhales rolling warmly down Stiles’ back. He wriggled away from Derek’s grip and slid out of bed, heading toward the bathroom as quietly as possible. His hamstrings ached sweetly with every step.

It wasn’t until he was done washing his hands that a cold, clammy feeling came over him. Part of him had been been expecting it-- the doubts, the “what the hell am I doing here”, the _there's a reason you stick to hook-ups and one-offs, Stiles, run while you can_. He’d always been so sure he wasn’t ready for this, wouldn’t ever be ready for something like this; was wired wrong for the kind of love Scott and Allison shared, the kind of love his dad had somehow managed to find not just once but twice.

He shook his head in an attempt to get rid of the thoughts, but the feeling of unease only grew stronger until he tiptoed back into the bedroom and caught sight of Derek stretched out on the bed, all dark hair and naked skin, the arm under which Stiles had been sleeping flexing a little with every deep breath he took.

God, Derek. Derek was worth it, probably. Worth the risk. This thought scared Stiles almost as much as it thrilled him.

He startled when Derek made a noise and shifted under the blankets. “Come back to bed,” he mumbled sleepily, patting the empty pillow next to his. Stiles waited for it, waited for the familiar stone of dread and fear to plummet in his stomach, but it didn’t. He didn’t feel anxious at all as he walked toward to the bed, as he curled up next to Derek again, as a strong arm settled around his waist again and pulled him close closer closest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://www.coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **ETA (2014)** I edited the story and removed a few things to make the ending a little smoother.
> 
>  **ETA (2016)** When I wrote this fic I hadn't done any creative writing in years and was still very much getting back into the groove, and it's now been years since I wrote it, so please, no concrit! :)


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